


Freak

by Honeybeebatch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Name-Calling, Pre-Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 15:02:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11488860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeybeebatch/pseuds/Honeybeebatch
Summary: My friend Julia asked that I write her a fic for her birthday, so here it is. The prompt was (and I'm paraphrasing because I lost the message): John is frustrated and takes it out on Sherlock by calling him a freak and watches as all the wall's he'd taken down since John moving in, come back into place. Apologies for the angst.





	Freak

John’s keys caught in the lock and he cursed under his breath, better not to attract the attention of the whole street, as he struggled to turn them in the lock. It was raining. It seemed to him that it had been raining for days. He knew it had only been a few days but now, with his keys jammed in the lock, clothes soaked through and stuck to his skin, he was not in the mood for accuracy. All he wanted was a hot shower, a cup of tea with the teabags he brought from the shop, not the kind the surgery brought, and to watch some stupid TV show for a few hours. There was take out in the fridge he could have for dinner and then later, he would go to sleep, nice and warm and the stress of the day would just melt away or so he hoped.

He pushed the key harder, turning it with more force than he usually would, and scared he might break the key in the lock but was rewarded with a click. The door opened and he pushed it hard and stepped into the hallway. He stepped inside and the water started dripping onto the carpet almost immediately. His shoes were caked in mud that slopped onto the carpet and sunk into the fabric. _Where did that come from?_ He thought as he closed the door behind him, pulling his keys out of the door and clutching them in his hand. It was cold, almost numb from the rain but the sharp edge of the key pinched the skin.

The door to Mrs Hudson’s flat swung open and she hurried out, her keen eyes landing on John then sinking down to the wet, muddy carpet. Her expression transformed to one of horror, the kind one might have if somebody had run over their cat, not messed up their carpet.

“John.” She scolded. “My carpets.”

“I know Mrs Hudson,” he said, sighing. “I’ll sort it out when I’ve dried off.”

“Don’t bother.” She dismissed, no doubt hurrying into her flat for cleaning products. He was reminded of his mum hissing at him for a spilt drink as a kid and how she always mopped up the mess when it was wet.

“Sorry.” He called into the flat after her. He gingerly kicked off his shoes and left them at the door on the mat. His hair was dripping wet, the droplets on a path over his face, the water collected on his chin before falling onto the already drenched coat. He climbed up the stairs as fast as he could muster, his legs were cold and he was limping again. He sniffed and continued to the flat. There was a pungent smell coming from the top of the stairs, not dissimilar to sulphur. _What on earth had Sherlock been doing now?_ His jaw clenched and he stepped into the flat.

The air reeked. He spotted his flatmate almost immediately. Sherlock was draped across his chair with his blue robe billowing around him dramatically. He hadn’t changed or even moved since John had left for work almost eleven hours ago. Though he must have gotten up at some point if the ten teacups and smell coming from the kitchen were any indications. John dropped his keys onto the small table beside his armchair and let his eyes wander over Sherlock. He cleared his throat.

Sherlock opened his eyes and levelled him with a look somewhere between boredom, annoyance and loathing. “Caught in the rain John?” He sneered.

“No cases, I take it.” John raised his eyebrows and stripped himself of his jacket. He let it drop to the floor and stepped closer to the kitchen. The kitchen table was littered with science equipment and a rather large human liver and kidney. They were in various stages of decomposition, aided, he guessed, by the fluorescent yellow liquid in a large test tube. He let his eyes wander over the table and drop to the floor which was chemically burnt in four places.

“What happened to the floor?” He asked, keeping his voice calm as his fist began to shake at his side. He clenched his fist tighter. If Sherlock noticed, he didn’t say anything.

The consulting detective released a long, drawn out sigh. “What happened to the criminal classes?”

“They were stuck at work.” John guessed, forcing a smile.

Sherlock sighed again, this time in annoyance.

“Do you think you could clean this up?”

“I’m not a cleaner.” Sherlock reminded him.

“Neither am I but I seem to be the one cleaning up after you all the time.” John straightened up and stepped back into the living room and Sherlock twisted and placed his bare feet on the floor. His body was tense but lax at the same time. The tension clearly emulating from his head.

John’s tension was all over his body, from his aching leg to his cold body, to a headache niggling at his temples since an overly concerned mother decided to lecture him on diagnosing her child.

“I see your date was cancelled John, how unfortunate but the other one was much better.”

“The other one?” John asked, his anger bubbling up.

“You know,” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he waved his hand in the air. “The one before.”

“Louise.” John supplied.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed further as though he didn’t remember her name when they both knew full well he did. “The one with the freckles.”

“That was Louise,” John said again, this time with a little more force.

Sherlock rose to his feet and raised his eyebrows knowingly. “Then her.”

“Louise, the girl I dated for four months before she tried it on with you and you told me she had a sexually transmitted disease.”

“Was that the last one?” Sherlock asked, feigning confusion.

“You know bloody well that it was. Now can you tidy up your mess so I can have a shower?”

“I’m waiting for Lestrade to drop by with a case.”

“Sherlock. I’ve had a long day. Can you stop being a pillock for one moment?” John raised his voice. Sherlock stared at him for a moment, eyes running over his body and deducing his entire day. John cleared his throat and warned, “Stop. Stop being you say anything.”

Sherlock frowned. “You have no idea what I was going to say?”

“You were going to tell me about the coffee somebody spilt on me on the tube or the nurse that trod on my foot, the car that splashed me. The endless complaints about runny noses and sore throat, you were going to tell me the real reason my date cancelled and the tube home was closed so I had to walk because I forgot my wallet which you took out of my jacket yesterday evening. You were going to deduce how tired and irritated I am when all I want is to have a shower and not deal with you. So can you stop being such a freak and just act normal for once?” John’s voice had reached a shout by the end and he stared at his flatmate.

He watched the consulting detective’s face drop momentarily, his eyes sadden and then harden again as he returned to his usual ‘high-function sociopath with no time for human emotion’ exterior. His posture straightened and he cleared his throat quietly, as though the sound alone was betraying too much emotion.

John’s stomach dropped. He suddenly forgot all about his own anger and all he could think about was how much he regretted opening his mouth. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out only a cut off sound like somebody choking on their own blood.

Sherlock sniffed, faking indifference and uttered, “You were the only one that never called me that.”


End file.
